


Fraternity

by veronamay



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Early Work, M/M, New York City, Post-Movie(s), Twincest, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-11
Updated: 2003-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:31:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the first movie.  The Saints are in New York, and things have changed.  Murphy's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fraternity

Right from the start, it had always been the two of them against the world. They lived inside each other, shut off from everyone, never once feeling the lack that others called 'loneliness'. But now they were four where once there had only been two, and Murphy didn't like it. Even Rocco had never gotten too far inside, but there was their father and Smecker, too _present_ to be ignored, breathing charisma and righteousness like air. They had their places in his and Connor's lives, now; how was he to tell them he wanted none of it anymore? How was he to tell Connor, when he came in to breakfast every morning looking pleasantly disheveled and smelling of Smecker's cologne, that he had no right to go squandering himself away from Murphy's arms?

Always the two of them, with no need for another, and no thought of shame between them. But now "Connor and Murphy" had become The Saints, and that was too large for two. And there was Il Duce, the shadowy figure absent from childhood memory but carrying all the potential of fatherly disgust in every glance. That glance lingered on Murphy from time to time, and he imagined that his father divined every thought that crossed his mind.

So when Connor stumbled through the door of the kitchen in the safe house du jour, reeking of cKone and sex, Murphy reached carefully for his coffee and didn't look up.

"Morning all," Connor said, and yawned as he dropped into his chair. Murphy grunted in reply and gulped his coffee, catching a whiff of Connor-smell. He breathed deeply for a moment and closed his eyes.

"About time. You hungry?" Il Duce shoved a cup in Connor's direction.

"No." Connor rubbed a hand over his face and hair. "What time is it?"

"Nearly eight. We're leaving at ten. It's gettin' a bit ripe around here." A newspaper followed in the wake of the coffee, folded over to reveal the lead story. Murphy slid a sideways glance at his brother; he'd already seen it. Connor stared at the newsprint for a few seconds.

"Holy fucking _what_?" he shouted, laughter making him choke. He coughed, eyes watering, still clutching the paper with its lurid headline: SAINTS TO OPEN FRANCHISE IN BIG APPLE?

Murphy smiled into his plate. Rocco had always said they should recruit, that they'd have no trouble setting up shop. But that would corrupt the mission, dilute its purpose. It was not the way for them. He had to admit, though, it was an attractive idea.

"What are we, fucking Burger King?" Connor tossed the paper on the table and wiped his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt, his face still flushed. Murphy threw him a quick glance, his smile widening. Connor caught the look and arched an eyebrow at him.

"Seven-Eleven, little brother," Murphy murmured, and ducked the cuff Connor aimed at his ear in reply.

"'Little brother', is it? Still going on about that?" Connor grinned and bumped his shoulder as he got up to make more coffee. "Any time you want to compare notes, Murph, you just let me know. I've not had to use an ice pack in that area for a while now."

"Aye, I might," Murphy shot back. "And the results'll be the same as always, _little brother_." He leaned back in his chair and grinned upside down at Connor, earning a quick glimpse of an outstretched tongue before their father spoke again.

"Where's Smecker?"

Connor fumbled with the coffee filter, spilling grounds over the counter. Murphy turned back to his plate and felt the tiny spark of joy inside him fade away.

"Shower," Connor said briefly. He cleaned up the grounds and put the coffee on, but didn't return to the table, staring out the kitchen window instead. Murphy felt awkward with the empty space beside him. Connor's absence was an ache that failed to go away, even when he was there.

Their father grunted and shook the paper open. Murphy pushed away from the table and tried not to run to the back door.

It was warm outside already; the day would be hot and bright. They had nothing planned except travel, to where he didn't yet know. Not that it mattered, really, because one town was much the same as another, and the work itself never differed, only their targets. He wondered when that had begun to bother him. The mission was still inside him, burning hot as it had since the first day, and their purpose still fueled his dreams and guided his hands; none of that had changed. But he felt chained, held down, as though gravity was a pressure suddenly felt on his skin, stopping him from fulfilling that purpose.

Murphy went down the three steps that led to the backyard and sat down on the grass in the scant shade of the house. It was quiet out here, all the neighbouring yuppies gone to work and school, their live-in housekeepers busy watching Oprah. He lay back and closed his eyes, trying for a few vain minutes not to think of anything but breathing.

Sometimes his imagination drove him wild. He would picture them, Connor with Smecker, legs wrapped tight around his waist while Smecker pounded into him. Murphy would lie in bed at night and strain to hear the faint noises from the other room, and always he wondered what had driven Connor away. They'd settled the question of right and wrong a long time ago; what did it matter, after all, if no-one was hurt? Love was love, no matter where you found it. And Murphy could never imagine loving anyone but Connor.

Apparently Connor could, though, and that cut deep. How could he fuck Smecker every night and not fall apart inside?

He felt it when Connor came outside and lay down beside him, but he didn't dare acknowledge his presence. Smecker and Il Duce were between them, and though he ached inside because of it he would not say so because this was Connor's choice, it had to be. God knew, Murphy would never deny him anything if Connor asked, so what else was he to think?

"I still talk in my sleep," Connor said after a while. "Apparently."

"Aye?" Murphy didn't move. "What about it?"

"It bothers him." They never spoke Smecker's name to each other, except when they were working.

It never bothered Murphy; he'd heard Connor's mumbling every night of his life. It was hard to sleep without hearing the whispered non-words in his ear.

"So?"

"So it looks like we'll be sharing a room again," Connor said. "Big brother."

That made him smile before the words sank in; when they did, it was enough to shatter his peace. Murphy sat up and looked at his brother's guileless face. Not a hint of regret. God be praised.

"Does Da know?" He felt vaguely shaky, but his hands were steady as rocks.

"Does he need to?" Connor looked at him. "What's that to do with anything?"

"He ..." Murphy couldn't explain it. It was suddenly shameful, what Il Duce had done without saying a single word; Murphy felt the emptiness of the past weeks all over again, his fault, because he was too weak to stand up to a single man for the thing he held dearest in this life.

"He what?" Connor shifted closer so that their bodies were aligned side by side. It was the first time they'd had so much contact since just after they killed Yakavetta; it made Murphy slightly dizzy to have it back. He felt something then, a not-pain that had nagged at him without his knowing it, now gone from the back of his mind.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter." And it didn't, suddenly. He leaned back on his elbows and watched the sky, clouds racing through the blue at a speed that promised storms later on. Connor shifted around to lie with his head on Murphy's stomach and his legs bent at the knee, and relaxed against him with a sigh that sounded like relief. They were silent for several minutes.

"He said he'd like the both of us, once," Connor said. "Said you were there anyway because I couldn't shut up, so we might as well make it official." He laughed, but it didn't feel like humour to Murphy. "I told him no."

"Why?" Not that Murphy would've said yes anyway, but he was curious. Come to that, he was curious about why Connor had gone away from him at all, but that was still too raw to the touch for questioning.

"I said I wouldn't share," Connor said, and fell quiet again. His head was a warm weight on Murphy's belly, his neck right there with a hint of collarbone showing. Vulnerable. Trusting. His.

"You did share," Murphy said before he could stop himself. Connor tensed, but he put a hand on his head before Connor could move. It was still raw, maybe, but he couldn't leave this be. "You shared without me."

He didn't mean to sound so pathetic, but he never could hide anything from Connor. It worked both ways; Connor jerked as if slapped and turned his face into Murphy's stomach. Murphy stroked his messy hair into more disordered spikes.

"It seemed ... it was expected," Connor said at last, and Murphy grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head up. Connor's eyes opened wide, the same as his own, echoing the loneliness that was so foreign to them both.

"Since when have we done what's expected of us?" Murphy demanded, anger rising in him. "It's always been you and me, brother, no-one else. Has that changed for you? You need something different now?"

"No." Connor put his hand over Murphy's on his head. "No. I never wanted ..." His mouth worked, but he didn't say anything else. His eyes were fervent, though, and Murphy relaxed his grip, easing back down onto the grass.

"So, then." He took a breath. "Call it an experiment, and be done with it."

"Experiment." Connor snorted. "Aye, it was that. Fuckin' weird, man. Reckon he fancies Da more than me, anyway." He grinned at Murphy. "Think that'd work, do you?"

"Not fucking likely," Murphy said. The very idea of his father, Catholic morality incarnate, going anywhere near Smecker in one of his moods was enough to give him a cramp. "Besides, Ma would kill him when she found out."

"Aye, that she would." Connor sighed. "Ah, fuck it. I don't want to think about that anymore." A smile crossed his lips and lingered there, and Murphy's own mouth went dry. "This is the first time I've felt comfortable in weeks."

"What am I, your personal body servant, then?" Murphy said, nudging him. Connor opened an eye and looked at him again.

"Oh, aye. And later on, I'll have you scrub my back for me, if you're good."

"Fuck you," Murphy said, but his hands were in Connor's hair again. Connor's grin turned wicked.

"Oh, you'll have to be _very_ good for that."

Murphy choked, and rolled over onto his stomach, dislodging Connor completely. Images flowed through his head even as he laughed, making him long for the cover of night and the privacy of their own room, where they could lie quietly together. Connor leaned on his back, his breath whistling past Murphy's ear, making the small hairs on his neck stand up. He throttled the idea of getting a hard-on; there was no time. But later ... well, that was different.

"What do we tell Da?" he asked, looking at the ground in front of his nose. "He'll -- he knows. From the first. He's been watching me."

"Telling you to behave, eh?" Connor elbowed him, then wrapped both arms around his chest. "That'd be a first. Look -- it's none of his fucking business. He's been in fucking prison our whole lives, he's the last person to tell us what's done and not done. Besides which, what's he going to do, come right out and ask us? Not likely, Murph." He rested his head on Murphy's back. "Just leave it be. We'll be fine. And if we're not ..." He trailed off, but Murphy could read his thoughts without trying. They could always leave. They could take their work anywhere, after all.

"All right," he said. "Now get off me, you lout, and get your arse dressed. We're leaving soon."

"Lout, is it?" Connor rolled off him and stood up, pulling Murphy to his feet at the same time. "Fine language that is, from my revered elder brother. But then I've always been the smart one in this family -- who was it thought of the rope, eh?"

"Oh, Christ, not the fucking rope again." Murphy groaned. "Will you never shut up about that, man? One fucking time we used rope, and suddenly you think it's the be-all and end-all of existence."

"Saved your arse, didn't it?" Connor said smugly, slinging an arm around his neck. "Which is a good thing for both of us, I'm thinking," he whispered. "Want to join me in the shower, do you?"

Murphy's groan this time was real.

"Don't," he managed, trying not to think about warm water sliding over skin, and hands slick with soap following it everywhere. "God, you're a bastard."

"Takes one to know one." Connor kissed his cheek and ran ahead into the house, leaving his smile behind for Murphy to bask in. He walked slowly inside, avoiding Il Duce's gaze and the slumped form at the kitchen table, heading for the bedroom to pack his few belongings. It didn't matter where they went now; when they got there, he wouldn't be alone.


End file.
